


World Cup

by rozurashii



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon, weiss_day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-11
Updated: 2008-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozurashii/pseuds/rozurashii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The French air doesn't agree with him, but football is universal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Cup

**Author's Note:**

> Mouse over for Japanese translation.

There is a cool breeze ruffling what remains of Schuldig's hair. It had been dirty, matted, and probably infested with lice so he can't say that he's sad to have lost it but it does leave his neck cold. It didn't occur to him at the time that he could have taken a jacket when he left the hotel room. It's already May but the air still has a sting to it. He takes a seat, front and center in the empty stadium, looking out across the field.

Schuldig still doesn't like crowds. It was only six blocks from the hotel to the stadium but even that was a bit much. Keeping the everyday trickle of loud, oppressive, and usually angry voices from disrupting his concentration is like breathing but that's when he's in a place that he's comfortable with and people are speaking a language that he's familiar with. He hates the French agents and their smug smiles over his head. He hates the French language, the way its sibilant sounds escape his tongue.

Language, he can hear Agnes murmuring in his ear, is the foundation of your skills. Not blowing people up with my mind? he'd asked her. She'd laughed and cuffed his head affectionately. He misses her now, as much as he misses Germany and a world that he can comprehend. She wouldn't let the stupid French intimidate her out of the room and into the cold spring afternoon. He hasn't learned how to not care what people think about him yet. He'd thought so, until he had to hold his own in a group where he doesn't fit and where no one will make room for him. He has to take it on his own. Teammates are not the same as friends. It's not a lesson he'll need twice.

The hum of minds brushing against his own is barely even noticeable unless he pushes out, past the thick walled coliseum. It's as quiet a place as he would ever be able to find in such a large city, though the peace will not last. He spares a moment of longing for his childhood when the promise of a live football match would have left him in fits of glee. This match is no idle game, it is his proving ground. Either he is successful or not. Only one way will allow him to leave France alive.

Once upon a time, before everything, a thought like that might have scared him but Schuldig doesn't believe in failure any more. He may not know what form his test will come in or what he'll be up against but he knows he'll succeed. It's not just his life on the line.

Serenity becomes more and more difficult to maintain as the stadium fills. It begins as a slow trickle but eventually it builds to a low roar and Schuldig develops a furrow in his brow as he tries to keep the mishmash thoughts crowding his brain to a manageable level. The seats around him fill and the hum of voices meshes unpleasantly with the hum of thoughts.

On the field, the French team is doing warm-ups and practice shots while the Germans huddle and stretch. Schuldig thinks the French keeper has a jammed finger but he's not sure his translation is correct. It annoys him that he can't be certain. If he were faster to pick things up or if he hadn't been discovered by Rozenkreuz so late things might be different. But he isn't and he wasn't. He makes that the end of his self-reflection and turns his attention to the people around him again.

There are half a dozen Germans and one American speaking badly accented German behind and to the right of where Schuldig sits. He amuses himself by offering the American the wrong words for the conversation. His friends poke good natured fun at his mistakes. The sound of their laughter makes Schuldig smile to himself.

The German group stills into a hushed sort of awe as someone passes them. Schuldig shifts his focus only to find empty space where he expects to find a mind. It's not a shielded mind; he's had enough experience with those sorts to know.

"You'll just give yourself a headache," says the Major as he sits in the empty seat nearest the aisle. "Fucking psychics and telepaths. What a waste of perfectly good potential. Eszett is just going to make you into some kind of pervert psycho."

Schuldig allows himself only a moment to recover his poise, using the group who had recognized the Major (Did he even have a name, Schuldig wondered.) to get the information he'd wanted. "Sorry, sir," he says in a rare bout of honesty, "it's a bad habit to rely on my skills like that."

The Major lets that comment pass with a wave of his hand. "You're working for a bunch of sadists, kid, if they're making you train with the six-weekers."

Schuldig chuckles. "I've been told it builds character." He and the Major share a sideways glance of mutual commiseration. "But who really wants character like that?"

A group of young boys in identical uniforms and short, dark hair run down the aisle to lean against the barrier at the front. Following them is a harassed looking woman who must have been a saint for escorting half a dozen football hooligans by herself.

"どっちが好き?" the Major calls to the hooligans. "ドイツかフランスか?"

Schuldig doesn't know that language either but it's a little easier to tell what the Major is asking. It isn't a language made entirely of vowels and mockery.

The oldest boy of the group, clearly the ringleader, turns his bright blue eyes on the Major. "もちろんドイツ," he says with a grin. "フランスのほうは弱いんです."

The Major laughs at that. "He says Germany will win because France is weak. What do you think, kid?"

Schuldig shrugs. "No contest. And, the French keeper has an injury." He catches the blue-eyed boy's gaze and smirks when the boy blushes but doesn't avert his gaze. "Kids are daring these days," he says.

"You're a fine example," the Major tells him, not unkindly. "Don't encourage him if you're not willing to take care of a kitten."

Kitten is a fine way to describe such a boy, and Schuldig knows that as much of a treat as it might be, it's simply not feasible. He concentrates, trying to memorize the flavor of the boy's mind. _Not this time, kitten. Maybe when you're older._

"Your friend is here," Schuldig says, startled out of his private moment by the sudden rise of excitement in the Germans behind them. "Evidently you're not going to like the dress he's wearing." The Major swears and Schuldig bids a private farewell to blue eyes. He's ready to pass the test.


End file.
